Page 67 of Kissed By the Gods
“Sweet Serephelle,” I mutter.
Nyrica glances at me, one brow lifting. “You’re praying to the wrong goddess, love. It’s not the goddess of luck who will see you through.”
I swallow the lump rising in my throat. Climbing a mountain is one thing. Climbing a mountain the gods themselves designed to kill you is something else entirely.
“Lovely,” I mutter. “You guys don’t make it easy around here, do you?”
Faelon smiles, quick and flirty. “Easy is for soft hands and silk sheets.”
Nyrica snorts. “I don’t know what kind of sex you’re having, Faelon, but you’re doing it wrong.”
“Hey!” He turns to Thalric. “Can I whackhimon the back of the head?”
Ryot interrupts. “Easy is for people who stay on the ground—the grounded.” His eyes are hard on me. “Do you want to stay on the ground, Leina of Stormriven?”
I meet his gaze, though my pulse is racing. He’s not trying to scare me, I don’t think. Maybe he’s giving me a choice. Choices in my life are rare enough to taste like honey, even when they’re laced with something bitter.
“No,” I say. “I don’t.”
He jerks out a nod and then continues making his way down the mountain.
“That’s Master Ryot to you, rebel girl,” he tosses back over his shoulder.
My lips twitch, and I fall in line behind the guys. “Yes,MasterRyot.”
He snorts, and I know the sarcasm landed this time.
If this is what it takes to earn a faravar, to rise above the dirt and bleed for something bigger than survival?—
Then I’ll climb.
Even if I have to bleed every step of the way to the top.
Even if it kills me.
They say blood makes you family, and I think that is true.
But not birthright blood.
It’s the blood that’s spilled, the blood that’s given, that does it.
The man who taught me how to stand was not the one who gave me life, but the one who charged into battle next to me, who held the line when I faltered, who called me son before I ever believed I could be one.
That’s the blood that matters.
Faelon’s book of poetry, tentatively titled Blood Between the Lines
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
The crushed petalsin my palm unnerve me. They remind me of Leo’s broken arm—and the scream that tore from his throat the last time I touched him.
Touchedhim.
Like Leo’s arm, the bloom is ruined. The parchment-thin petals of the buttercup are torn, their silky softness bruised. The delicate pink is already turning gray at the edges, darkening toward black. What was once a perfect flower squelches under the pressure of my fist. With a low growl, I open my hand and let the mangled remains fall to the ground. They land among the others I’ve already destroyed.
